


working my way back (to you, babe)

by friendlyneighbourhoodteacakes



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Charles is an Angry Boi, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Good Dad, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post Beach Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlyneighbourhoodteacakes/pseuds/friendlyneighbourhoodteacakes
Summary: 23rd October, 1963."Uh… Professor?""What is it, Hank?""Uhm. Erik is at the front door. And he has two toddlers with him. One of them has white hair."
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 23
Kudos: 318
Collections: Secret Mutant Madness 2019





	working my way back (to you, babe)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [librata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [librata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata) in the [secret_mutant_madness_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/secret_mutant_madness_2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  October, 1963.
> 
> "Uh...Professor?"  
> "What is it, Hank?"  
> "Uhm. Erik is at the front door. And he has two toddlers with him. One of them has white hair."
> 
> The song I used to title this fic _(Working My Way Back to You)_ got stuck in my head when I first read the prompt (though I can't remember the exact train of thought). This fic eventually came about. I hope you enjoy, Librata! It was a lovely prompt and I hope this fulfills it.
> 
> This fic has also been translated into Russian [here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9177252)

**_23rd October, 1963._ **

"Uh… Professor?"

"What is it, Hank?"

"Uhm. Erik is at the front door. And he has two toddlers with him. One of them has white hair."

That’s ridiculous and stupid, and Charles nearly snaps as much at Hank. Erik has no business coming here. But he casts his telepathy out and senses the minds of two new children on the grounds. The fact he didn’t detect anyone approaching is a testament to how bloody tired he is. It turns out, opening a school is hard work. 

With a sigh, he looks up from the syllabus he’s in the midst of designing and frowns at Hank instead of snapping at him and says, quite bluntly, “You can tell Erik he won’t be entering this house until he takes that idiotic helmet off his head.” 

“... well, he’s already in the foyer. With the children. It’s raining, so I didn’t want to leave them on the doorstep.” Hank at least has the decency to look _sheepish_ , awkwardly pushing his glasses up his nose and shuffling his feet, but that doesn’t mean Charles is any happier about having Erik under their roof again. 

Scowling, and heaving another sigh, Charles puts down his fountain pen and rolls back from the desk. His movements are becoming more fluid every day. Nearly a year on from Cuba, he’s adjusting well to life in a wheelchair. He’s adjusting well to life without Erik Lehnsherr, so him just showing up, almost a year to the day he left, is, quite frankly, rude and inconvenient. “Fine. Let’s go,” he says.

Hank steps back from the doorway and leads the way out of the office. It’s downstairs, for both ease of access and convenience; the majority of the classrooms, newly refurbished, yet to be used, occupy the ground floor, so it makes sense the headmaster would be as close as possible to those. 

After taking a deep breath to prepare himself, at least a little, Charles follows. 

**-xmx-**

There’s a metal chair rolling towards them and Erik feels as if he’s drowning. The twins, one pressed against each of his legs, are oblivious to his sudden panic, sleepy and a bit cranky from the journey. They’ve stopped whining, which is something, but that doesn’t change the fact there’s a _wheelchair_ coming towards them. 

The man sat in it is very much Charles Xavier. His hair is a little longer, his eyes a little more tired, but there’s no doubting it. That’s Charles and he’s in a wheelchair and there can only be one logical reason for that. 

Erik can’t quite remember how to breathe. All he can do is _stare_. 

“Stop gawking, Erik. We’ll talk about it later,” Charles says, or maybe _snaps_ would fit better. Justified, given what Erik has done to him. _Fuck_. “I’d much appreciate it if you could take that absurd helmet off your head while in my house.”

When he rediscovers the ability to talk, Erik croaks out, “It’s Magneto.” Then, with more certainty, “The helmet stays on. I won’t be here long.”

“Under this roof, you’re Erik,” Charles says, sounding just as certain. “Take the helmet off or get out and take those children with you.”

That’s harsh, and not the Charles he knows. The Charles he knows is kind and patient and would never turn _anyone_ away, especially not two young children. He opens his mouth to retort, but Beast beats him to it, admonishing, “ _Charles_.” Beast’s eyes, full of what can only be called worry, dart to the twins, who are sucking their fingers, and clueless as to what’s happening, with their sleepy, drooping eyelids. They’re only two and they need stability, stability Erik has no chance of offering them. 

Charles glares at Erik, ignores Beast, and doesn’t retract his statement. So, with great reluctance, for the sake of the - _his_ \- children, Erik sucks in a breath and raises his hands to his helmet. Off it comes, and then he tucks it under his arm. “Happy?” he asks quietly. 

Both Charles and Beast look surprised, but the expression drops off Charles’ face quickly and he says, “No. But you’ll do. Hank, why don’t you take the children through to one of the lounges for a nap? They look exhausted.” A pause, and then he looks up at Erik, asking, “If that’s all right?” 

Erik just nods and bends down, so he can pry the twins’ little hands from his trousers. Beast approaches and offers his big blue paws to them. It probably helps that the children have spent the last few days around Azazel and Mystique; they don’t seem intimidated by Beast at all. Wanda even whispers, “Soft,” when her tiny hand is engulfed by Beast’s much bigger one. 

Charles’ expression softens as he watches Beast lead Pietro and Wanda away. Then he sweeps an arm back in the direction he came from. “Shall we?” he prompts, and then, in one smooth movement, he turns his chair around and rolls it back down the corridor. He’s fast; Erik has to lengthen his strides to keep up, the helmet still secure under his arm. The office they enter looks new - the door definitely is. It’s a double-door, plenty wide for the wheelchair to easily fit through. “Sit,” Charles instructs, gesturing to the empty chair on one side of the desk. He moves around the desk and situates himself facing the chair. 

As soon as he sits down, Erik opens his mouth and starts to say, “Charles, I had no idea…” 

“No. We’re not going to talk about _this,_ ” Charles says, effectively cutting him off. His fingers tap on his chair to indicate which _this_ he means, as if there could be anything else. “We’ll talk about that later. The children are more important. Explain, please.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already gone digging,” Erik says, with no real heat, raising a hand to his temple. 

“You’ve had the helmet off all of two minutes,” Charles points out, which is a fair point. But he follows up with, “I have no intention of going in your mind again. Not unless it’s necessary.” Which undoubtedly means, _Not unless you try to hurt someone_. “Now tell me about the children.” 

Erik swallows and says, truthfully, “They’re mine.” The words don’t seem to shock Charles. Maybe he dipped into his mind after all. “I suppose I should start from the beginning.” 

“Yes,” Charles sighs. “I think you probably should.”

**-xmx-**

**_16th November, 1960._ **

The U.S. government have so many Nazi scientists, high-ranking officers, and general Nazi sympathisers in their employment, it’s despicable. Unforgivable. Frankly, Erik can’t wait to leave the country, just as soon as he ticks another Nazi off his very long list. Washington, D.C., teems with them, but he’s only here for one. One, and hopefully, a few more will get in his way in the process. 

It won’t be any real loss to the planet and ideally, it’ll take him one step closer to Shaw. 

He’s flicking through some notes in a diner with some generic name when the waitress approaches, all smiles. The badge on her pocket says her name is ‘Magda’. “Care for a refill?” she asks, holding up the coffee pot. 

Grunting out an affirmative, Erik pushes his empty cup towards her. His arm turns in the process and he sees the exact moment her eyes zero in on the numbers tattooed into his skin. “Problem?” he snaps when she hesitates to fill his cup. Instantly, her cheeks flush, and Erik feels a strange feeling of guilt swirling in his stomach as she starts to stammer a response. “Sorry,” he says before he can overthink it, “Long day.” 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to stare. It’s… sorry. I’m Jewish,” Magda explains, still blushing. “My sister and I… we escaped. Before - well, _before_. Kindertransport.” She swallows and adds, “I lost a lot of family.”

Ah. Her staring makes a lot more sense, and Erik says, sincerely, “I’m sorry.” 

“I know it doesn’t compare,” she says, and she finally pours his coffee. “To actually…” She breaks off and swallows again. “Sorry,” she repeats. 

The look in her brown eyes is troubled and only now does Erik acknowledge the fact she’s quite pretty, with long, curly brown hair, and a sweet, heart-shaped face. It comes to be that she joins him at his table after her shift ends.

**...**

Somehow, over the course of the next three days, he ends up telling her how he’s on the hunt for Nazis and _somehow,_ he winds up demonstrating his powers. It’s the first time he’s been so open with someone and he’s fairly certain it’s only because of what they have in common. Maybe it’s also because she doesn’t judge at all - she just accepts and understands, as best she can. She never questions. That’s enough.

Each night, they make love. There’s no _real_ love in it, but it offers a brief respite from all of the killings for Erik. 

The morning after their third night together, reality hits, and Erik forces himself not to return to the diner again. Magda is too much of a distraction. He doesn’t really feel a strong attachment to her. In another life, maybe… but he only has one life, and the purpose of it is to kill Shaw. 

**-xmx-**

**_23rd October, 1963._ **

Charles isn’t surprised the kids are Erik’s because he can see him in both of them; the little girl has Erik’s hair and her brother’s eyes are identical to Erik’s. Their minds are still developing, but they know that the man they travelled here with is their father, that their names are Wanda and Pietro, and that they’re safe. All of that, he picked up within moments of seeing them. 

The most ridiculous part of it all is the fact that they feel _safe_ with _Erik,_ their mutant terrorist father. But two-year-olds don’t really understand terrorism, and Erik and his Brotherhood have kept them fed and comfortable for the last four days. Maybe _safe_ isn’t such an unreasonable feeling.

“... Magda’s sister contacted me. How, I’m not sure. Saw me on the news, she said.” That’s how Erik finally concludes his little tale about how the twins came to be in his possession. Their mother is dead. The fact Pietro, at least, is definitely a mutant, means their aunt doesn’t want to look after them and apparently thinks their mutant terrorist father is, therefore, the best option to be their guardian.

Charles can’t help but question the woman’s morality. Erik’s crimes have dominated the news for months now, and nothing the media has said has suggested the man is in a good position to be a father. There’s always the possibility Erik is making the whole story up and actually kidnapped the kids when he found out they existed, but Charles isn’t going to go digging in his mind to find out. 

“I’d like them to stay here,” Erik says, when Charles fails to respond. “With you. They’d be in danger if I kept them with me.”

Well. Erik probably wouldn’t kidnap two children just to leave them with him. “We aren’t a babysitting service,” Charles says bluntly. “This is a school, Erik. For young mutants who have manifested. Or it’s going to be - we only have three students enrolled and they receive one-to-one tutoring at the moment. Your children - they’re practically still _babies._ Do you think we have the resources? The time to raise toddlers?” he demands. 

“We both know you have the resources,” Erik says, and he has the audacity to roll his eyes. What an arsehole. “They will manifest eventually. They’re my kids.”

“Your understanding of genetics astounds me,” Charles deadpans. 

“You saw Pietro’s hair,” Erik snaps. He sucks in a breath. “Please, Charles. Please. I need them safe.”

How odd, to have Erik Lehnsherr practically begging for something in his office. In 1963. Christ. He really does love these kids, and for their sake, Charles isn’t exactly in a position to say _no,_ but he isn’t going to make it seem as if he’s caving instantly.

Charles rubs at the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh. “So my methods are convenient for you when you need a babysitter,” he says. Just to demonstrate his point, he asks, “What if I’d agreed to stay with you in Cuba? Who would’ve looked after them then?” 

“I don’t know, and we’ll never know,” Erik says, without hesitation. “Dwelling on a what-if won’t do us much good.”

Shaking his head, Charles sighs again. “You can’t piss off and leave two young children to be raised by a school. They need you, Erik. You’re their only living parent now. We won’t act as a stand-in for you,” he says. “They can stay, but you have to visit. Regularly. I mean at least every weekend. You have a teleporter, so you have no excuse not to.” 

“I can’t promise that. I’m busy.”

“Terrorising innocent humans?” Charles can’t keep the disgust out of his expression. “You’ll _try,_ Erik, or I’ll drop them at an orphanage. Don’t think I won’t.” He would never, but he has to hope Erik thinks he’s now bitter enough to follow through with the threat. 

“Fine,” Erik says, through gritted teeth. The fact it takes so little to convince him makes Charles thinks he wasn’t trying very hard to refuse to begin with. 

This is how Charles comes to be the guardian of Erik’s two young children; this is how he realises he’s still hopelessly in love with Erik Lehnsherr, and would likely do just about anything for him for the rest of his life. 

**-xmx-**

Erik is sure of only three things:

  1. Mutants are by far the most superior species and this means humans will one day turn on all of them. 
  2. His children deserve a safe, stable home. 
  3. A year on from Cuba, he is stupidly, ridiculously, still in love with Charles Xavier.



Part of him hopes the fact he’s so easily agreed to take the children is a sign that Charles still loves him, too, but Erik knows that’s a pipedream. He paralysed Charles. Their ideologies are too far apart to ever align. The love between them was, in all likelihood, irreparably damaged on that beach. 

It’s harder than he expects, saying goodbye to Wanda and Pietro. Although he’s only known them for a matter of days, he’ll miss tucking them into bed at night and kissing the tops of their heads, and the way they clutch at their teddies Mystique went out and bought for them when he first brought them to the base. 

“We’ll keep them safe,” Charles promises before Erik leaves. 

Of course, Erik trusts him. He never would’ve turned to him if he didn’t. 

They don’t talk about the wheelchair. Charles tells him, “We can discuss it on Saturday.” 

That feels like a truth, so today, Erik doesn’t push the issue.

When he returns to the Brotherhood, none of them are very good at hiding their disappointment at the fact that Charles is now looking after the children. The base feels emptier without the twins.

Erik tells himself he’s mostly excited to see his children, come the weekend, that they’re the main reason he’s so looking forward to returning to the mansion. But when he lies in bed that night, Charles’ impossibly blue eyes keep drifting into his thoughts, like it’s 1962 all over again. 

**-xmx-**

**_17th August, 1962._ **

They’ve had far too much to drink, Charles knows that much. It’s hard to resist, on the CIA’s payroll and with bars in such close proximity. Now they’re back at the hotel, with alcohol courtesy of room service sitting on the desk, and talking, the way they always do, after a long day with little success.

The moment he realises they’ve _definitely_ had far too much to drink is when Erik, quite suddenly, asks, “Do you have a map?”

All Charles can do is blink at him in confusion. Their faces are almost touching, and at some point, Erik’s hand has drifted down to his thigh. It feels… _nice._ “There’s one in the car, you know that, we’ve been using it this entire road trip…” 

“But I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

Charles stares at Erik, amused, and unable to believe he’s actually just attempted to use that pickup line on _him._ “You’re utterly ridiculous,” he tells him, but it isn’t too ridiculous, because a moment later, he’s surging forwards to finally let their lips meet. 

They’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks, but he can’t bring himself to question this. Erik is unbelievably attractive and his mind, unlike anything Charles has ever had the pleasure of touching with his powers. When their lips meet, it’s nothing like any kiss Charles has ever had before. It’s a bit sloppy, thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol, but it’s _electrifying_ and Charles could happily keep kissing Erik forever.

If only humans and mutants alike didn’t have a rather large need to breathe. 

A good minute or so later, they pull apart again and Charles presses his forehead against Erik’s, catching his breath. Erik pants too and Charles can feel the warmth of his breath against his lips. “That was something,” Charles huffs out, cracking a smile. 

“It really was,” Erik agrees, his mind alight with happiness and a touch of surprise, like he can’t quite believe Charles actually kissed him back. 

“We should do that again,” Charles suggests, and when Erik grins, he takes that as an agreement. 

The kissing resumes and Charles enjoys every second of it. 

**-xmx-**

**_26th October, 1963._ **

Part of Charles truly doesn’t expect Erik to show up on Saturday, but when he wakes up and carries out his usual morning check of who happens to be on the grounds and who isn’t, he’s pleasantly surprised to brush across Erik’s mind. It seems he’s made himself comfortable in his old room - rarely when he lived here last year and scarcely touched since. 

Erik isn’t asleep, but he’s only recently woken, the sleepiness of his mind slowly wearing off. It’s so familiar that it makes Charles’ heart warm and then he hears a, _Charles?_

Immediately, he recoils from Erik’s mind. He didn’t intend to slip beyond the very surface of Erik’s thoughts and slams his shields up, a little worried Erik will continue to push for mental conversation. That’d be too much. Charles isn’t going to be cruel to himself. There’s no need to venture further into his old friend’s mind. 

Charles goes through his morning routine, determinedly _not_ letting his thoughts drift to Erik again. The routine is lengthier than it was a year ago but by now, familiar. As soon as he’s dressed, he’s off downstairs for breakfast, which Alex is preparing. Saturdays are always special days. The kids are allowed whatever they want, cooked or otherwise, within reason, instead of just toast or cereal or fruit. 

“Alex is making me _pancakes,_ ” Jean declares, when Charles enters the dining room. She looks very pleased with herself. Bless her heart, she’s only seven, and still adjusting to life in the mansion, but she’s doing well and she seems more than happy with the routine they’re all settling into. “And Wanda and Pietro are getting pancakes too, ‘cause they don’t know how breakfast time on Saturday works.” She nods to the twins, who are sat on Erik’s knees. 

“Jean was telling me Saturdays are special days,” Erik says, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “That Alex makes whatever they’d like.” 

Based on the anger radiating from the kitchen, Alex isn’t too keen on Erik’s presence. Of course, Charles and Hank explained the situation, but that, apparently, hasn’t really eased the blow of actually seeing the man who left them on a beach a year ago. “Yes, Alex’s proven himself to be quite the chef,” Charles says, wheeling himself to the head of the table. He’ll be having a full English, as he always does. 

Hank enters a short time later, with Ororo and Scott trailing behind him, both of them looking sleepy. The children are allowed to stay up later on a Friday night, even if the consequences are that they wind up a bit more tired on a Saturday. There’s no harm in it, not when movie nights on Fridays are so enjoyable. They can all tolerate some grumpiness for the sake of such fun Friday nights.

Breakfast ends up being served at ten o’clock precisely, Alex serving up each meal with a flourish and a grin for the kids. That doesn’t stop him glaring at Erik at every opportunity and the absence of a plate for Erik is obvious. 

_I’m not cooking for_ him, Alex insists, when Charles gives him a mental prod. _He knows where the kitchen is._

If Erik minds, he doesn’t say so. Instead, he focuses his efforts on helping the twins to cut up their pancakes, and ends up nabbing a few bits for himself. The twins are as lovely as ever and Charles, in the last few days, has found himself wondering about nature vs nurture. Now, he can’t quite believe how good Erik is with his children. He’s patient and kind and _fatherly,_ which is as sweet as it is surprising. 

Before long, all of their plates are at least somewhat empty and the kids plead to go and play with the twins. They love having children so young around, possibly because they’re quite compliant; they’re happy to just join in with whatever the older kids want to do. So, Hank and Alex take them all, with Erik’s approval, to play in one of the lounges. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to spend time with the twins? They can play with the other children during the week,” Charles points out, when it’s just the two of them left in the dining room. 

“I’m sure. You promised me we could talk about… that,” Erik said, with a not-so-subtle nod towards the wheelchair. 

Charles pauses, sighs, and then nods. “I suppose I did. Come on, then. We can discuss it in my office.” 

**-xmx-**

The office feels so _impersonal,_ but Erik knows he has little room to complain. The fact he’s welcome in the mansion at all is a miracle, even if Charles does only insist on him visiting because of the children. 

“We checked at the hospital,” Erik starts. “A week later. You were already home, so we thought…”

“You thought I was fine,” Charles concludes. “No, I wasn’t fine. You left me on a beach with a bullet hole in my _spine._ It’s… technically an incomplete injury, but the most I feel is some tingling, occasionally.” 

“How could you possibly have gone home within a week?” Erik has to ask. He’s no doctor, but he knows that can’t be right. It takes time to heal, to recover, and in Charles’ case, to relearn how to do an awful lot of things. “You can’t have healed so quickly.”

“Well I’m never going to heal,” Charles says, blunt and harsh and… true. “Not entirely, am I? Thanks to your carelessness.” 

Swallowing hard, there’s little Erik can think to say. “Moira shouldn’t have -” 

He’s cut off with a laugh from Charles. “You can’t honestly still think Moira is at fault.” 

“You don’t shoot a _gun_ when there are innocents nearby - “

“You don’t shoot _missiles_ at people!”

The shout catches them both by surprise. Erik narrows his eyes at Charles, who sits back in his seat, looking exhausted all of a sudden. “They shot at us first,” Erik reminds him, trying to sound patient, when all he really wants to do is shout back. “They were going to kill us, Charles, without any hesitation.”

“They were frightened,” Charles says, calm again, but still looking tired. “Scratch that, they were _terrified._ Of us. They needed a chance to see that we weren’t any sort of enemy. I’m a bloody telepath, Erik, don’t you think, if I thought they truly hated us, I’d have taken your side?” 

Erik grits his teeth. “You’re a telepath, not an omniscient being,” he says. “And rehashing this old argument won’t do us much good. You can’t have left the hospital after a week,” he re-emphasises firmly, to get back to their original discussion.

There’s a long silence and Erik can’t help but wonder whether this is it, whether Charles is on the verge of kicking him out and telling him never to return. But then... “The drugs were affecting my telepathy, making me project my own suffering. And without the drugs, I could sense everything in the hospital. All of the pain and people dying and the grief of their loved ones. It was hell. So we made arrangements to continue my treatment and recovery at home,” Charles finally explains. “It wasn’t convenient, but it was necessary for my own sanity.” 

That hadn’t occurred to Erik and he found himself frowning over the desk at Charles. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, and he knows he’ll keep apologising for the rest of his life, if he’s a part of Charles’ for that long. 

“You apologising every time you visit won’t do either of us much good,” Charles says, shrugging, like it doesn’t matter. It does matter. It matters more than Erik will ever be able to explain. “It’s okay, Erik. It was an accident. I’m adjusting.” 

Accidents still had people who were at fault, but Erik doesn’t try to argue further. At least he has all of the pieces of the puzzle now. Mystique will cry when he tells her, he’s sure. She’d been devastated to learn of her brother’s paralysis the other day.

But he doesn’t have to tell her until he goes back to the Brotherhood base tomorrow. For now, he’s going to enjoy the time he has with his children, be grateful for the fact he’s allowed anywhere near Charles, and push thoughts of anything else as far from his mind as possible. 

The weekend, he spends mostly with Wanda and Pietro. The other children want to play too and he won’t deny them that. Their names are Jean, Scott, and Ororo and they’re seven, eight, and nine, respectively. Scott, it transpires, is Alex’s younger brother, though there’s not much of a resemblance - aside from perhaps in their mutations, the glasses on Scott’s face preventing him from blasting everyone with red light similar to what Alex can hurl out of his chest.

It doesn’t feel like much of a school, if Erik’s honest. It’s closer to a family. He likes it though, and loves the way all of the children seem to enjoy every moment at the mansion, much as he does, disagreements with Charles aside. 

Come Sunday evening, he feels guilty about having to walk away again. 

**-xmx-**

**_10th October, 1962._ **

There’s something intoxicating about Charles Xavier that Erik still can’t quite put into words. It consumed him long before their first kiss, two months ago nearly now, and every day since, they’ve ended up with their hands on each other, one way or another. 

The size of the mansion is insanity and Erik can’t quite believe Charles has managed to keep this so quiet.

“You were more than happy to take the CIA’s money,” Erik comments, with a considerable amount of amusement. “But you must have more than a few dollars stashed away yourself.” Nobody can have a mansion _this_ huge and not have a huge amount of money to support it. 

“The government has plenty of money,” Charles says dismissively, experimentally bouncing on the bed in his room. It seems plenty springy, though it must’ve been years since anyone has slept on it. It doesn’t make a noise, which Erik makes a mental note of for later. “But I did leave quite a few tips out of my own pocket, at the diners and the hotels and suchlike.” 

“Of course you did,” Erik says, because he’s almost painfully aware of just how generous Charles is. He’s taken numerous people - virtually still strangers - into his home, to train them, and he’s making sure they’re well-fed and appropriately clothed. There’s also the kindness he saw in him while they were travelling around looking for other mutants. Some of the mutants they’d met had been too young to come with them, but Charles had reassured them anyway and left a number for them to get in touch with him in the future. 

When they go to bed, later that night, Erik doesn’t even bother with the illusion of going to his own room first. He just goes to Charles’ room and Charles seems grateful for his mere presence. 

Usually, Charles falls asleep quickly. But not tonight. 

“I hate this place,” he murmurs, hours later, still not asleep. Erik can’t help but worry. It’s so unlike him to still be awake, hours after lying down in bed. “I want to… change it. Transform it into something better than what it was.” 

“Why do you hate it?” Erik asks. He has to ask. It’s massive, yes, but there doesn’t seem to be anything inherently wrong with the building.

In the darkness, he can barely make out Charles’ sad smile. “Bad memories,” he says. “It’ll be better, one day. One day, I hope it can feel like someone’s home. Maybe not mine, but I want to… at least be a little more comfortable here.”

Charles never does fully explain what his bad memories are, but just talking a little seems to help him fall asleep. Something twists in the pit of Erik’s stomach. He wishes he could feel as if this place were home, if only to make Charles feel better. But it won’t be long now until they’re facing Shaw and Erik knows that after that, he’s never going to have the chance to call anywhere _home_ again. 

**-xmx-**

**_9th November, 1963._ **

Raven arrives while Erik is reading the twins to sleep, on Saturday evening, the third weekend the two of them have been living at the house. _Mystique,_ Charles corrects himself, because while he might force Erik to drop Magneto while he’s here, Mystique’s new name is much more personal. It’s about having control over her own life rather than trying to establish herself as a threat to humanity. 

_Come to my office,_ Charles gently pushes at her. There are the beginnings of a protest in her mind, probably something about staying out of her head, so he quickly adds, _That’s all I want to say. I’ll keep out._

It takes longer than he expects for her to come to the office and he realises, belatedly, that she probably thought it was still upstairs. “Hank had to point me in the right direction,” Mystique says, when she appears in the doorway. “Hi, Charles,” she greets, stepping inside, blue and naked. 

“Don’t you get cold?” he asks before he can stop himself, averting his gaze so he can only see her out of the corner of his eye. She’s still his sister and he still has absolutely no desire to see her _naked._

There’s silence from Mystique, until the chair creaks as she sits down opposite him. “No,” she says bluntly. “Part of my mutation, I think. I’m most comfortable like this,” she says, firm. Charles doesn’t see a reason to argue with that. “If you have a problem with that, well… I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. I just… I needed to see you. After what Erik said, about…” Her yellow eyes flick from his face, down to the chair. 

“Nice of you to show an interest.”

Her eyes flash. “You told me to leave and then - the hospital was empty, Charles, we thought you were _fine,_ ” she says, as insistent as Erik had been. 

“I’d just been shot. Excuse me if I wasn’t entirely in the right frame of mind.” Huffing, Charles waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I get frustrated sometimes at… all of it.” He shakes his head. “It was an accident and yes, I told you to leave. Are you… are you happy?” he asks. “With the Brotherhood?” That’s the most important thing, he supposes, even if he doesn’t care for their methods at all: Mystique should be happy, after such a long struggle to become comfortable in her own skin.

It takes a moment for Mystique’s features to soften, then she says, “Yes, I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.” 

“Good, that’s good…”

“Erik isn’t.”

The words make Charles go still. He can’t find anything to respond to that little tidbit of information with. 

Mystique takes it upon herself to elaborate. “I see him zoning out sometimes, with this look in his eye. Like he’s lost. Like he doesn’t quite want to be with us,” she says. “It’s tearing him apart, going back and forth, Charles. And I know what you two had, it was… special. I think he still feels all of that. He wants to be with you.” 

“Erik doesn’t feel anything for me. He left. You both left. That’s that,” Charles says, despite the clenching of his heart in his chest. Could Erik still feel something for him? Really? For months now, Charles has doubted Erik ever feeling anything for him at all. 

“You _told us_ to leave,” Mystique repeats, and when Charles opens his mouth to tell her again that he’d just been _shot,_ she cuts him off by holding up her hand. “Maybe you didn’t mean it, but you did tell us to go. We just respected that in the moment. We left. We’ve stayed away, mostly. And I’m telling you, I think he wants to come home.”

“I don’t think this feels like his home, and he won’t just… abandon what he’s trying to achieve,” Charles says. Erik is too committed to his cause to ever walk away from it, surely.

“The twins have changed things,” Mystique says, looking exasperated. “You must’ve sensed that. He loves them. He loves _you._ This is where he wants to be. The Brotherhood would be fine without him and I think he probably knows that. He’s trained us well.” 

Although Charles would prefer the Brotherhood to not be active at all, things do seem to have calmed down in the last few weeks. The Brotherhood hasn't even been on the news once since the twins arrived at the mansion. Maybe there’s some merit to what Mystique is saying. “What makes you think he considers this place home?” he asks, mouth dry, heart clenching at the thought of Erik wanting to come back.

Mystique scoffs. “Home is wherever you feel safest, isn’t it? Come on, Charles. This was the safest place he could think to bring his children. Of course it’s his home. Ask him to stay. He will.”

**-xmx-**

The weekends always go too quickly. That’s what Erik has realised, three weekends into his arrangement with Charles. The twins always whine when he says goodbye, on Sunday afternoons, their wide eyes full of pleading. They want him to stay. He wishes he could. 

To make it easier for them, Hank always has the other children distract the children while he slips out of the front door, after he’s said his goodbyes. Today, unusually, Charles is waiting for him there. They don’t talk much, aside from about the twins, sometimes about the other children in Charles’ care. All three of his current enrolled students have manifested quite young, Erik has learned. They’re quite sweet and they all adore the twins. 

It’s the best life he could offer to his children and in another life, he might’ve been a bigger part of it, too.

“Hello,” Charles says. He looks a bit uncomfortable, like he’s not entirely sure of what he’s doing, which is strange, because Charles is always quite sure of himself. 

“I’m about to leave,” Erik points out, gesturing to the door. “So, really, it’s more of a goodbye.” He can’t keep the fond amusement out of his voice. This isn’t how their goodbyes go. Usually, they don’t say goodbye at all, except for perhaps a meaningful look at one another as Erik leaves whichever room they were both in last.

“No, of course, of course,” Charles says quickly. “It was nice to see you. And to see Mystique last night.” 

The fact he’s actually using Mystique’s chosen name surprises Erik, but he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t want to accidentally put him off. It also doesn’t hurt him. It’d be so strange to hear Charles say _Magneto,_ a name he’s decided he much prefers on the lips of those who are frightened of him. He never wants Charles to be scared of him. “I’ll be back next weekend,” he says, offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Maybe we could… try for a game of chess,” he suggests. 

“Maybe we could.” 

Unsure of why they both keep stalling, Erik gestures to the front door again. “So, I should go. And I’ll see you next week.” 

“Yes. Sorry. You should go,” Charles agrees. As he steps towards the door, Erik can’t help but look over at him again. Charles’ mouth opens, like he wants to say something else, and then closes again. The silence that passes between them is awkward. Then, finally, Charles says, “Goodbye, old friend.”

How badly Erik wishes it didn’t need to be a goodbye. But he smiles, opens the front door, and, confident Charles will hear him if he projects the thought loud enough, offers a better, _See you next weekend._

**-xmx-**

**_21st October, 1962._ **

When they first met, when their road trip to find fellow mutants first began and they were staying in hotels and motels all across the US, Erik always slept on his back, stiff as a board, ready for anything. To have him sleeping on his front, breathing softly, one arm flung over Charles’ waist, feels in many ways like an achievement. There’s no doubting that Erik trusts him, that Erik _loves_ him, and though it’s all been sort of a whirlwind romance, Charles knows this is the type of love that is going to last a lifetime.

The arm around his waist is a joy which has slowly become a constant and Charles can’t help but smile fondly at him, his fingers absently trailing over Erik’s arm. The digits cruelly inked into his flesh aren’t visible, being on the opposite side of the limb, but Charles doesn’t need to see them to know that he never wants Erik to face suffering again. As long as it’s within his power, he’s going to make sure Erik is _happy_ , because that’s what he deserves. 

Once this is all over, they’ll come back to the mansion, find more mutants, and figure out the future together. 

That’s Charles’ hope, anyway, though he knows it’s a bit of a pipedream. He’s picked up on the determination in Erik’s mind - unintentionally - and knows he’s still just as intent about killing Shaw as he was a few months ago, whether it’s a suicide mission be damned. Sometimes, he picks up darker thoughts still, try hard as he might not to, about humanity as a whole, and… _God_ , Charles hopes he’s enough to bring Erik back from the brink, should it ever come to that. 

He knows that at his core, Erik is good, albeit morally conflicted due to his past. He can’t help but stare at him, overwhelmed by just how much he loves him, as sunlight sneaks in through the cracks of the curtains and begins to bathe the other man in light. 

Erik opens his eyes, just a little, and seems bemused to find him staring. “What?” he asks, his voice slightly hoarse from sleep. 

“Just thinking about how much I love you,” Charles says, and Erik looks both charmed and, endearingly, _flustered._

He never says the words _I love you_ back, but Charles doesn’t need him to. Actions speak louder than words, and as long as Erik stays by his side, he’ll always know how much Erik loves him.

**-xmx-**

**_16th November, 1963._ **

“What do you mean, you aren’t going to be here next weekend?” Charles can’t keep the coldness out of his voice. 

He’s disappointed. Fuck it, he’s _pissed off,_ he can’t believe he actually thought Erik was going to stick with this routine. No, instead, Erik is putting something else, probably some ridiculous, terrorist activity in front of his children. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise. 

So why the fuck does it hurt so much? 

Mystique was wrong. If Erik wanted to stay, he surely would start by actually maintaining his weekend visits, at a minimum.

“I mean,” Erik says, and he sucks in a breath, as if steeling himself, “I have business to attend to. I can’t make it next weekend. I will try my best to make it the following weekend.” The chessboard in front of them is quickly becoming insignificant and the room suddenly feels quite cold with the weight of the sense of disappointment filling it. 

“Unbelievable,” Charles mutters, bitter as anything. “Unbelievable. It’s only been a month and you’re already flaking on this whole plan. You’re such an arse, Erik. Off you go then. Go and blow up a building and terrorise some more humans, why don’t you, that’ll solve _all_ of mutantkind’s problems while I babysit your children for you -” 

“Someone’s going to try and kill the President.”

Immediately, Charles shuts his mouth. There’s no hint of a lie in Erik’s expression, his eyes solemn, his mouth set in a thin line. 

“How could you possibly know that?” Charles asks. It seems inconceivable. “Why would _you_ want to prevent that? It seems more like something you’d attempt,” he says, his lips twitching just the slightest amount, but otherwise entirely humourless. 

“We have… connections to a precognitive mutant,” Erik says, carefully. “You can… look.” _If you want._ His hand raises to his temple. “The President is one of us, Charles.”

Charles stares. He’s still adjusting to Erik projecting his thoughts out at him again, always when he’s least expecting it, so he can't block the thoughts in time. He doesn’t mind as much as he expected. Erik’s mind is just as comforting and familiar as it was a year ago. “He’s one of us?” he echoes, because that’s probably the most ridiculous thing he’s heard. If the President was a mutant, surely he would’ve picked up on that with Cerebro, especially when they were looking for mutants _in_ Washington, D.C. 

“Nothing particularly… bold, obviously,” Erik says, gesturing vaguely. “We think it’s more like Hank. Or more like Hank _was_.” 

Ridiculous.

“And you plan to stop his assassination,” Charles says slowly. 

“Yes.”

“That’s dangerous, Erik. What if someone catches you? What if something happens to you?” Charles says. The worry is instinctive. The kids need Erik. All it takes is one mistake…

The smile Erik gives him isn’t much comfort, nor is his reply: “I know my children are in safe hands.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “Show me what the precog said,” he says, a hand moving to his temple, and when Erik nods, he dives in, his friend guiding him to the memory of the precog’s prediction. 

Sure enough, the President’s death is coming, and soon. Next Friday. But that’s not all.

“Are you out of your mind?” he demands, when he pulls away. “You heard what she said, Erik.”

_The President will die and in most futures, you will be imprisoned, Magneto._

“It’s worth the risk.” 

“To save _one doomed man?_ In most futures, you’re going to end up locked away, you’ll never see your children again, you selfish bastard. They need you, I need you.” The words burst free before he can stop them. He bows his head and closes his eyes, then repeats them anyway, “I need you.” 

God, he misses Erik, so much it hurts. The weeks drag and the weekends fly by, even if he doesn’t spend much time with Erik himself. Sensing the enjoyment of his children has been enough to satisfy him, but the thought of Erik being shut away in some prison, unable to see anyone, his children clueless as to where he is and the chessboard on the table abandoned, never to be played again… it’s all too much. 

Charles can’t bear the thought of losing Erik again. 

Opposite him, Erik is silent, mind whirring, trying, Charles can sense, to process what he’s just said. “I have to at least try. Wouldn’t you try? To save one man? It’s worth the risk. He’s the President. Think of the potential for all mutants. If I save him, it could change the _world_ for mutants.”

“You’ll end up in prison.” 

“In _most_ futures. Not necessarily this one. Not if I prepare properly.” And damn him, Erik actually sounds so sure of himself. 

“It sounds to me like the President dies in every future, Erik,” Charles argues. There’s that same determination in Erik’s mind as there was when he planned to kill Shaw last year though, and Charles suspects this battle is over before he’s even had a chance to fight. He can’t open his eyes again and look at Erik’s face. It’s more than enough just picking up on his thoughts and feelings. “You can’t change what’s going to happen.”

“I _have_ to try,” Erik says again, certain and apologetic, wrapped into one tone. “I’m sorry, Charles. I have to try. You know you’d do the same.”

The thing is, Charles would. He can’t deny Erik this. That doesn’t make it any easier. So, he opens his mouth, and says the only thing that might be able to get him through this whole situation. 

**-xmx-**

“Whether you save him or not, come home afterwards. Come home and stay.” _Please._

Never in a million years would Erik have expected those words to leave Charles’ mouth and the mental plea is even more surprising. Stay? Stay at the mansion? 

He’s too stunned for words. He should answer, should say _no,_ he has the Brotherhood to think of, but he’s been miserable there for weeks now, his mind constantly occupied with thoughts of Charles and the twins and the fact he never should’ve left Charles on the beach last year. 

Instead of answering, he finds himself blurting, “Do you still love me?”

Charles’ eyes pop open and go wide. His own mouth drops open and he flounders for a moment, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. Then he gathers himself together, squares his shoulders, and says, like it isn’t the most important word he’s ever said, “Yes.”

“I love you too.”

That really does knock Charles into silence, for a good minute or so.

Then, like it could be that simple, he says, “So stay. Save the President and then stay.” 

The choice, of course, isn’t so hard. And maybe, just maybe, it can be as simple as Charles makes it sound. When Charles had told him to leave, he’d been so hurt and angry that he hadn’t even stopped to consider that it was only said in the intensity of the moment. He hadn’t ever thought Charles might ask him, one day, to come back and to stay. 

Not even once, even if he’d hoped for it, constantly, especially in the last few weeks.

The Brotherhood can manage without him. They haven’t even gotten up to much, aside from planning to save the President. As soon as he’s safe (or dead, if the precog is as accurate as they suspect), he can finally come home. He can watch his children grow. 

He can be with Charles. 

Heart thudding in his chest, Erik rises from his seat and rounds the table, so he can bend and press his lips to Charles’. Charles returns the kiss with just as much passion, one hand moving up and tangling itself in Erik’s hair. He’s missed this so much. There’s so much time to make up for. 

There’s no need, of course, for a verbal answer. Erik’s going to prove he means to stay by just doing it. 

**-xmx-**

**_23rd November, 1966._ **

It’s the sound of music and the feeling of youthful joy which draws Charles to the lounge attached to his and Erik’s suite. The song isn’t one he’s heard before, but it’s upbeat, and when he wheels into the lounge, there’s Erik and the twins. 

Pietro is bouncing happily on the couch, as in time with the song as a five-year-old can be, while Wanda stands on her father’s feet, the two of them dancing together nonsensically to the tune. It is, quite possibly, the sweetest and most endearing sight Charles has ever seen with his own two eyes and he can’t help but smile fondly at them all. 

What they have isn’t perfect. Like all couples, they all have their arguments; unlike most couples, theirs are usually rooted in mutant rights and politics. 

But when Erik looks up at him, his eyes full of warmth and heart full of love, Charles knows he doesn’t regret choosing to stay, three years ago now. He couldn’t save the President, but he didn’t end up imprisoned, and Charles, of course, doesn’t regret asking him to stay. 

They love each other. They’re happy. The kids are happy. The school is thriving. 

It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough, and Charles wouldn’t trade the life they have together for anything. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy holidays!
> 
> If you'd like to see when I post more stuff, follow me on [Tumblr!](https://ofbrothersandteacakes.tumblr.com/)


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